


Nefarious Fiend

by rohanrider3



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: #this meeting could have been an email, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, Friendship, Gabriel being cruel, Gen, Hurt, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, I should stop saying they're SHORT one shots, Love, Male Friendship, Mind Games, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Psychological Torture, Torture, but this is not that day!, one day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-05-15 00:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19284424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rohanrider3/pseuds/rohanrider3
Summary: “Thisss entire meeting could have been a bloody email.” Crowley muttered, head tilted downwards on his chest and facing towards somewhere between his shin and the floor. “Pointlessss wasssste of time.”“Time,” Gabriel said sternly, “is not something beings like us take into account.”After what happened at Tadfield, Gabriel isn't happy with Aziraphale. Or Crowley. He pulls them into one of Heaven's Conference Rooms to...talk things over with them. That sounds fine. Right? Right. (It's not.)





	1. Aziraphale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tommino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommino/gifts).



> First spurt of energized, excited creativity in awhile. Watching Good Omens wrecked rocked me like a hurricane of feels, and by goodness I loved every minute of it. Enjoy!

“I suppose you’re wondering why I called this meeting.” Gabriel said in his usual sanctimonious manner, fingers steepled before him.

Aziraphale swallowed hard and sat up even straighter, determined not to make a misstep. Gabriel had set aside one of the Conference Rooms for this very meeting. Which meant that he—they—that both of them—were treading on very, very, VERY thin ice here.

Gabriel did not like missteps. And Gabriel especially did not like—well. Missteps involving “fraternizing with the enemy”, as he’d said. More than that, Gabriel did not like—

 

—did not like—

 

Crowley.

Crowley, who’d helped avert a pointless Apocolypse. Crowley, who despite his prickly behavior and literal devil-may-care attitude was the best being on Earth, in Aziraphale’s six-thousand year opinion. Crowley. Who happened to be a demon.

Gabriel did not like demons.

And he especially did not like Crowley. Apparently averting a pointless battle where thousands of innocents died horrible deaths counted as “bad” and “fraternizing with the enemy” in Gabriel’s books. 

Puzzling, really.

Be that as it may, Gabriel did NOT like Crowley. He never had, but his dislike had turned into outright hatred after that…that incident at Tadfield. And what had followed after.

Judging from Crowley’s glare across the conference table (the glare which was all but burning holes into Gabriel’s stylish suit), the feeling was mutual.

Aziraphale’s best friend snorted and purposely slouched even further down in his chair, as far as the icy chains holding him in place would let him. He still managed, despite the thick restraints holding him in place—and also despite his very stylish black suit, shoes, ever-present sunglasses, and ruffled coppery hair—to somehow embody the image of a very sulky snake.

“Thisss entire meeting could have been a bloody email.” Crowley muttered, head tilted downwards on his chest and facing towards somewhere between his shin and the floor. “Pointlessss wasssste of time.”

“Time,” Gabriel said sternly, “is not something beings like us take into account.”

“Clearly.” Crowley retorted. “The humanss will have started actually usssing solar power by now, and I wouldn’t be sssurprised if there are self-driving carsss when we get ba—“

“Shut up, snake.” Gabriel said offhandedly, and Aziraphale winced when Crowley outright _hissed_ at the opposite archangel, bared fangs and all. He’d tried shapeshifting into a snake when they were captured--of course--but the restraints weren’t letting him. Didn’t stop him from hissing again, though.

“It’s really all right, my dear.” Aziraphale broke in, putting on his best (false) smile. “It’s quite all right. Just a little bit of—of, of fraternal correction, from, from my superiors, and I’ll improve my—my performance with helping humans see the, the light, and—and everything will be—er, balanced, as usual, and as right as rain. Again.”

He’d hoped Crowley—that clever, quick-witted, absolutely maddening very best friend of his soul since time had begun—would take the hint and read into the words he dared not say aloud. Truthfully, he meant something more along the lines of _For pity’s sake, don’t make things harder on yourself and just let me take the heat this time, it’ll be fine, they won’t do any—permanent—damage—I don’t think—and then I should be able to come up with a reason for them to let you go that they’ll accept, and—NO CROWLEY STOP MAKING THINGS WORSE FOR YOURSE—“_

“Fraternal **CORRECTION?!** ” His best friend had shouted, all but lunging out of his chair. The icy chains holding him in place creaked and snapped as they kept reforming, and Aziraphale’s stomach dropped as he saw the cracked and swollen skin on his friend’s throat. But Crowley wasn’t paying attention. Oh, typical. He was too busy raging at Gabriel—at GABRIEL—who, Aziraphale nervously noticed, seemed to be enjoying this. Oh dear. Oh dear. He forced himself to stop spiraling into an anxiety attack, good heavens, he’d nearly lost track of what Crowley was saying—

“—BULLYING!!” Crowley was shouting. “I SSS—SHOULD KNOW! I’M A _DEMON_ , FOR—FOR EVERYTHING’S SSSAKE!! YOU LOT DON’T HELP HIM, OR NOTICE WHEN HE’S DONE SSSSOMETHING GOOD, YOU RANDOMLY SSSNATCH HIM UP HERE WHEN YOU NEED SSSOMEONE TO KICK AROUND, AND JUST BECAUSE HE’S KIND AND OBLIGING YOU THINK YOU CAN JUSSST—“

Gabriel raised one hand. And Crowley’s voice cut off.

 

“Oh, really!” Aziraphale cried. “Gabriel, you needn’t—you don’t have to—for, for Heaven’s sake, don’t—don’t— ** _Gabriel, stop_** **_that!_** ”

Gabriel turned his head slightly so that he was facing Aziraphale, quirking an eyebrow in feigned confusion. “Stop what, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale spluttered for a moment, his horrified eyes flicking from Gabriel’s hand.

 

From Gabriel’s hand to the ice muzzle currently smothering Crowley.

 

It had all happened so fast.

The chains around Crowley’s neck had just—just sharpened, and, and sort of—well, parts of them had melted, and remolded, over and over and over, icy fingers stretching up and coating over his friend’s chin, and mouth, and nose, and then covered the entire lower half of his face, and then—then just frozen solid over it, layers and layers of thick, clouded ice cutting into his best friend’s skin and turning it almost blue in seconds.

 

Crowley couldn’t breathe. He’d jerked in surprise at the suddenness of it all, and then jerked his head again, side to side to side, as if that might make things right again. In one of the countless mirrored walls, Aziraphale caught a glimpse of Crowley's hands, swollen and encased in ice behind the chair back. His friend's hands curled into trembling fists as he fought to break free. Wasn’t going to happen, though. Gabriel had made those chains. Gabriel didn’t leave weak links.

 

Aziraphale felt his own chest tighten.

 

Crowley couldn’t breathe.

 

Crowley—Crowley couldn’t—

 

And Gabriel was just sitting there, doing nothing—Aziraphale realized, almost numbly, that he himself had been trying to miracle the ice away ever since it had appeared on Crowley’s face, but whatever Gabriel had done, it was too powerful for him to undo—not fast enough, at least—

 

“Gabriel!” Aziraphale said again, breathless with shock and horror. “You can’t just—he—you can’t do this, he needs to—“

 

“He doesn’t need to breathe.” Gabriel said, as if explaining basic matters to a very small and stupid child. “He’s not a human. Time on earth doesn’t change celestial—or infernal—beings that much. Breathing’s just something he’s used to. Isn’t that right, demon?”

The muscles around Crowley’s eyes tightened, and Aziraphale knew his expressions well enough to know that even though Crowley was currently banging his own head against the headrest behind him, striving to get free, he was also glaring daggers at Gabriel. Who seemed to be enjoying this. A lot.

 

Aziraphale licked his lips, thinking quickly. What could he say, what could he do—he could, he could try turning Gabriel’s ire on him. Yes, yes that would work.

 

“Gabriel,” he began, but the archangel held up a hand and cut him off too. “Shut up.” Gabriel said cooly, and Aziraphale swallowed hard as he felt the icy tendrils spiraling harder around his own wrist, still pinning him where he sat. He had to stay calm. He had to get Crowley out of here. He had to get free to get Crowley out of here. He racked his brains for a plan. Think. Think. Crowley can’t breathe. Think. He doesn’t need to breathe. Does he? Oh no, what if he _does_ now? Besides, he’s a snake. He can’t handle cold. It’s bad for him. It’s so bad for him. Remember that time in Tibet? No, no, no, DON’T remember that time in Tibet. That’s not helpful, not now. CROWLEY CAN’T BREATHE. Think. Think. Think think think think—

 

All this time, Crowley hadn’t stopped trying to tear his chains apart, but his weakening efforts only seemed to make them grow thicker, the thin mist coming off the freezing links intensifying along with his efforts.

 

Gabriel abruptly stood up and made his way over to the other side of the table, leaning against the edge and looking down on the struggling Crowley, his usual, casual smile on his face. The cold, meaningless one that Aziraphale absolutely _hated_.

 

“I asked you a question, demon.” Gabriel said quietly, but his eyes were hard. With a sudden motion, he reached out and struck Crowley hard across the side of the face. The blow sent Crowley’s dark glasses clattering to the floor, skidding and sliding into a corner where they smashed against the wall and cracked into multiple pieces.

 

Crowley blinked a few times, then glared back up at Gabriel, vertical irises narrowing in their pools of yellow until they were mere dark slits in a blazing sea of anger.

 

Gabriel grinned at that.

 

“So the little snake-eyed fiend can still hear, at least.”

 

He leaned down, closer to Crowley’s glare. No. No. No. Gabriel paying attention to Crowley could not be good. Azirphale realized he’d started speaking now, almost babbling in a desperate attempt to draw Gabriel’s attention away from his friend.

 

“Gabriel!” He shouted, pulling against his own restraints. “You—you don’t have jurisdiction over him. It’s me. You wanted to speak with me, isn’t it? You were—you are—you are still angry about the averted Apocolypse, aren’t you? I’m the one you’re angry with, so talk to me! Get angry with me, not him!!”

 

Crowley shot Aziraphale a shocked look and made a half-angry, half-something-else sound behind the ice muzzle.

 

Gabriel smiled at that, then spared Aziraphale a glance over his shoulder and a small—a very small—smile.

 

“Oh, I think you’re getting the message just fine.”

 

He turned back to Crowley, considered. Then slapped him again, a full backhand this time, hard enough to leave a red mark across one temple. Then he stepped back, considered his work. Studied the way Crowley’s movements were slowing now, slowing…rather a lot, actually.

 

“Hm. Maybe I was wrong.” He drawled. “Maybe you _do_ need to breathe.” He leaned down, getting far too close to Crowley’s face again.

 

“Well, then, demon. You want to breathe so badly? You have something to say for your…friend?” Gabriel’s voice dripped disgust at the word and he nearly physically pulled back, then thought better of it. He smiled into Crowley’s eyes. “Well, then, demon. Fight for it.”

 

Crowley’s already gray face went nearly white, and Aziraphale heard rather than saw the steam hissing away from the ice coating his friend’s face.

 

They waited. Nothing happened. The ice continued to reform, despite Crowley’s best efforts.

 

Gabriel’s eyes were glacier cold.

 

“Fight. Harder.” He suggested, and Aziraphale felt something in his chest crack as Crowley outright _screamed_ behind the muzzle, jerking and struggling in a last, frantic attempt, steam rising as the ice melted away from his eyes, rolled down the ice ridges like tears until—finally— _finally_ —Crowley managed to breathe again. Just through his nose, but that at least was a start. It was something.

 

But—

 

Azpiraphale’s rush of relief quickly faded as he realized Crowley wasn’t breathing right. His breaths were coming in raspy, awful sounding huffs, and the skin underneath his strained eyes and around his face was—

 

—red. And white. And…and awful.

 

The marks weren’t from the ice. Not just the ice, at any rate.

 

Burns.

 

Crowley’s…face…is…burned. Badly. So badly that Crowley is shuddering as if he’s suddenly come down with a violent fever, and he doesn’t look—right, and he doesn’t look at all well—and his usual tough-as-nails-attitude is gone, cracked and crumbled down right now in front of everyone, and he just looks so—so lost—and so—so hurt—and afraid—the ice had hid all that until now—

 

How—how had that—

 

“You…” Aziraphale heard himself saying from a distance, almost as if someone else was using his voice. “You…froze…you froze holy water. To make the chains.”

 

Gabriel’s smile reached his eyes. “Yes. Yes I did. Rather clever, don’t you think? To use that purifying water on something so…” he shuddered artistically. “Disgusting.”

 

Gabriel leaned forward, an earnest expression finally shining out through his eyes. “Don’t you see, Aziraphale? The error of your ways? Stop fraternizing with the enemy, making excuses, pretending you have anything at all in common with this…with this fallen one. He’s corrupting you. Can’t you see? He’s twisted, dark, malicious—he only wants to hurt you, Aziraphale. You can’t trust him. No one can.”

 

Aziraphale blinked owlishly, once at Gabriel, then turned back to look at Crowley.

 

Who’d shrunk into himself at Gabriel’s words and didn’t dare look at Aziraphale.

 

“Well?” Gabriel said pointedly. He grabbed Crowley’s chin and dragged it upwards, ignoring the wince and ragged breathing that worsened as he did so. He forced Crowley to look him in the eyes, sneered at what he saw there, and forced Crowley’s head around to look directly at Aziraphale.

 

“See? Fallen. Corrupted. Weak.” He released Crowley with a disdainful thrust of his hand, and wiped it off on his pocket handkerchief afterwards. “Not even his own side wants him. So why on earth—or anywhere else—would you want to fraternize with this, this _snake_?”

 

Aziraphale stared at his friend.

Crowley’s eyes were glazed and only-half focused on him, but there was something else there too. Pain. And something worse than pain, something the torture and Gabriel’s words had laid bare at long last, shivering, hiding just under the surface.

 

Fear.

 

Fear that Aziraphale would believe Gabriel. Would side with…with Gabriel. Would leave him _._

 

_Damn_ Gabriel. Even on their worst days on Earth, Crowley must know _—surely_ he did—that Aziraphale would never be capable of leaving him behind, not in a hundred thousand millennia.

 

But Gabriel knew how to hurt people. How to play on old fears and insecurities. And he’d dragged Crowley here, taunted him with not being able to help Aziraphale, and then, without any warning whatsoever, tortured him almost beyond the limits of endurance. Then twisted the metaphorical knife in to the hilt of the emotional wound. Aziraphale and Crowley had dealt with threats before, of course they had, dozens and dozens of times, but they’d almost always had time to _plan_.

 

But an attack like this—like _this_ —taken off balance, blindsided by agonizing pain and callous reopening of old wounds, Gabriel's cruel, malicious little mind games--Crowley _would_ be scared, afraid, and lost. Who wouldn’t?

 

All of this rushed through Aziraphale’s thoughts in the time it takes to blink. With the briefest of side glances, Aziraphale noted Gabriel’s smug, holier-than-thou expression and grimly stored it away in his mental files of “Reasons To Smite Gabriel: Later”.

 

He’d had to add the “Later”. Because right now he needed to get Crowley out of here. And fast. He kept his focus on the cuffs binding him to his chair. Get out. Get Crowley. Get Crowley out.

 

But he also couldn’t let Crowley dwell on those horrid lies for one more second.

 

“Crowley, darling.” He said gently. “Please listen to me. What he said is not true.” Crowley’s eyes flicked to him for a second, then unfocused again, drifting back to staring into the middle distance. Aziraphale felt his own teeth begin to grind. DAMN Gabriel and his malicious tricks.

 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale repeated himself, even more gently than before. “He’s lying to you.” Although Crowley still seemed too lost to hear, Gabriel certainly did.

 

Gabriel swelled at that statement like an insecure pufferfish. “I do not lie!” He snapped.

 

Aziraphale spared him a scorching glance. “Oh, I _beg_ to differ.” He said coldly. Snippets of what Crowley had shouted before at Gabriel echoed through his mind, and he finally connected some of the dots that had been bothering him for centuries.

 

“I think you like to say you fight for the truth, when really, you do the opposite. You like to fight for what’s comfortable. For you. And everyone else can jolly go to…well. Jolly well fend for themselves. Which, if I recall anything correctly, was not the reason we were put here.”

 

He leaned forward, almost unaware of the way the ice encircling his wrists had begun to steam and melt, sending mist flaring up into the harsh light of the Conference Room.

 

“And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s bullies and—and _liars_.” He snapped.

 

His icy manacles snapped too.

 

Aziraphale was never quite sure how things happened next. He remembered The Incident in pieces. One was quite a clear snapshot of Gabriel’s horrified face. The next (after a series of blurry, hard-to-distinguish-images) was also Gabriel’s (still horrified) face, but now it (along with the rest of him) was embedded several yards away in the glass and marble wall of the Conference Room.

 

Time seemed to slow as Aziraphale reached Crowley, and then it crept and crawled in maddening wingbeats until he was able to tear his best friend free from the burning restraints and what remained of the muzzle. Getting across Heaven’s insane floor plan (really, what was the POINT in so many windows and glass walls?!) to the Globe only took a few moments, but it felt like all the ages of the world.

 

They vanished just before Gabriel’s bloodied fingers closed on Crowley’s blistered forearm. The foiled archangel gnashed his teeth at the duo’s narrow escape and roared out orders to the legions forming behind him. He knew where that traitor’s hidey-hole was anyway. And what kind of bookstore barely sold books, anyway?

 

He’d _burn_ them out if he had to.

 

But none of that was on Aziraphale’s mind at the moment. From the moment he snatched Crowley up and away from that dreadful room, all the way back to the bookshop, Crowley—his best friend in the entire created and non-created cosmos—Crowley, his brave, brash, loud, dramatic, always-had-a-quip _Crowley_ could only _whimper_ the whole way home.

 

“Ah—ah—Azirahphale.” He slurred, somewhere between the stratosphere and London, his first words since Gabriel had—well. Started. “—h—h—hurts, Angel. Hur-ts, hurts, hurts. Hurtsss.”

 

Aziriphale gave him a somewhat hasty, but nevertheless earnest kiss on the top of the forehead as they broke the sound barrier over the western half of Europe. “I know, dear. We’ll fix it.”

 

As they neared the bookshop, Aziraphale barely heard Crowley’s next whispered word over the blaring sound of London evening traffic. “C-c-c-caaan’t.”

 

“Oh!” Azirphale exclaimed, materializing in the center of his—their bookshop, the backdraft from his wings sending loose papers swirling across the floor. “Why ever _not_?” He asked, only just managing to sound worried instead of irritated. He was just so—so flustered. He’d never seen Crowley hurt this badly so quickly. And Heaven was on their way. To FIGHT them. He—very gently—set Crowley down on the nearest couch, made sure his head comfortably settled on the nearest pillow, then bustled around the shop, locking the doors, closing windows and drawing shades. THEY weren’t getting in here without a fight. THEY were NOT getting Crowley that easily. Not again.

 

He turned in time to see Crowley hiding his burned face and slitted eyes _in_ the corner of the couch, ginger hair barely showing between the arm and the back of the comfy, worn furniture. “ ‘m…bad.” Crowley rasped, voice barely above a whisper. “F-f-fallen. You heard what he s-s-s-said. I’m…not right. Not good. Not anymore. Good thingsss can’t help me. An’ bad things w-w-w-won’t even try. ‘m….’m bad. And I…can’t get b-b-better.” His voice, if possible, got even quieter. Smaller. “I, I tried. F-for a l-l-long time, angel. I—c-c—can’t.” His voice broke a little on the last word.

 

Aziraphale left off securing the last window latch and was at Crowley's side in a flash. He resisted the momentary temptation to summon his flaming sword and lay waste to Gabriel and all his ilk, and instead laid a careful, comforting hand on his friend’s head. “Crowley, my dear. Enough of that. We are going to have this conversation right now so both of us can then focus on your much-needed healing. You are not evil. You are not bad. You simply ask questions. You think for yourself. And goodness—well, I mean to say—heaven's sake-I mean--I mean, in any case, everybody who isn’t a moron knows those are not bad things. Besides, do you think a—a—“ Aziraphale searched his mind for Gabriel’s words. He stumbled over them, but repeated them nonetheless. He had to destroy Gabriel’s false argument word for word, or he risked losing Crowley to the lies altogether. And he’d let himself be literally damned before he’d let that happen.

 

“Do, do you think, my dear, that a—oh what’d that twat say—that a, a “fallen, corrupted, and weak” demon would _voluntarily_ risk the wrath of his superiors to stop a pointless Armageddon?”

 

The little he could see of Crowley’s face tightened in pain. Then his friend barely turned, just enough so that one teary, yellow, slitted eye could peek open to peer back up at him.

 

“Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmm.” Crowley said, his voice weak and unsure. “…n-nnnn…no?”

 

His answer was more of a question, but Aziraphale thanked his lucky stars for what he could get.

 

“Correct.” He beamed, and carefully reached out for the side of Crowley’s face. Crowley winced, almost instinctively, it seemed, and Aziraphale forced himself to keep looking unworried, collected, and competent. He’d be bawling his eyes out over what Gabriel had done, probably with a bottle or four of wine in the backroom sometime after this was over. Once Crowley was properly asleep and resting, of course. But now was not the time to indulge in personal hysteria.

 

However justified.

 

He concentrated on beginning to heal the wounds, on keeping infection and contamination and goodness-knew-what-else out and away from his friend. He’d suffered—and would suffer—enough already without all of that additional…well. Without all of that.

 

“How’re you feeling now?” He asked, unable to keep the hope out of his voice. Crowley made a ragged sound deep in the back of his throat. The burns had started to heal, but painful-looking blisters had developed over most of the skin, and Azpiraphale felt his own throat close up in sympathetic pain.

 

“S—s—still h-h-hurtsss, angel.” Crowley whispered. Aziraphale swallowed hard and—very, very carefully—kissed the top of his head again.

 

“I know.” He said sympathetically. “I know. But I promise, it will get better.”

 

Bursts of harsh light flashed across the windows of the bookshop, and Aziraphale felt the blood drain from his face as familiar winged figures, all in crisp, perfect suits, filled the street outside. Crowley winced at the sudden flares of light, and his dulling eye shut tight against the angry pulsing lights.

 

“Ah.” Aziraphale said, far more calmly than he felt. He stood up. Summoned the flaming sword into his hand.

 

He wasn’t afraid.

 

Furious, yes. Probably going to get disintegrated? Absolutely.

 

But they were NOT taking Crowley AGAIN.

 

He started making his way towards the door. Felt a pressure on his hand. Looked down to see one of Crowley’s badly burned ones latched onto it, mangled fingers painfully holding on to his own.

 

“Don’t go.” Crowley croaked, trying to get up. “Don’ be ssstupid, aaangel. I’ll…I’ll go.”

 

“You certainly shall not!” Aziraphale squeaked, eyes widening in horror as Crowley actually tried to sit up. He tried shaking Crowley’s hand off, but the demon’s grip only tightened. “I, I won’t let you get obliterated!”

 

“Sss—same goes…goesss for you.”

 

“Oh, bother!” Aziraphale huffed, feeling—of all things—somewhat peeved. They were both probably going to get painfully incinerated by some means or another in the next thirty seconds, and here they were squabbling about who would die in an agonizing manner first.

 

Typical.

 

A shadow at the door, blocking the harsh light. Gabriel’s stern profile. His voice, calling out.

 

“Aziraphale! Hand over the demon, and your punishment will not be prolonged!”

 

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Aziraphale snarled, right as Crowley’s equally impassioned, if slightly weaker and raspy “SOD OFF!” rang out simultaneously through the shop.

 

Aziraphale looked back down at his friend. Bleary-eyed, shaking, pale as a—well. Almost pale as a ghost. If you didn’t count the red and weeping third degree burns. Damn it. He couldn’t leave him like this.

 

He put the flaming sword away. It wouldn’t have helped. Not against Gabriel, at any rate. And then he sat down on the chair next to the sofa, keeping Crowley’s hand in his.

 

“Well.” He said, far more briskly than he felt. “They’ll have to just come and get us both, then.”

 

Crowley looked at him with wide eyes, the same way he’d looked at him all those eons ago back in the garden, when they’d first met. Incredulous. Surprised.

 

Aziraphale smiled brightly at him. He would not let Crowley see how scared he was. Besides, he realized, he wasn’t really scared. Just…resigned.

 

He hadn’t thought it would end this way. But, he supposed, if it had to end, being with Crowley was not a bad way to go.

 

**Epilogue the First:**

 

How hard, Gabriel was later heard to scream at the mustered choirs of angels under his command, was it to “—PUSH A BOOKSTORE DOOR OPEN? HMMM? WAS IT REALLY THAT HARD?!! HAD ANYONE, BESIDES HIMSELF, EVEN THOUGHT OF TRYING TO PULL IT OPEN?!! ANYONE?!!”

 

It was almost, a minor angel had offered, timidly, in the echoing silence that had thundered through Heaven’s halls after Gabriel’s outburst, as if something—or SomeOne—hadn’t…allowed it to open. No matter what they’d done. They hadn’t been able to do a single thing to the tiny little bookstore. Or either of the occupants inside. It had been…strange? Unexplainable?

 

_Ineffable_. Someone murmured. Gabriel whirled to find the voice, snarling, fists clenched and eyes wild, and only managed to redirect his searing blast of holy fire upwards and sideways, away from his assembled legions, through the already damaged glass ceiling at the last possible minute.

 

The Celestial Choirs had all found Somewhere Else To Be after that, and Gabriel was left alone,scowling, holding his bruising face in the middle of a completely ruined Conference Room.

 

_Ineffable._ He glowered to himself. As if the Almighty had taken those two—THOSE TWO—under their protection.

 

Surely not.

 

Surely _not_.

 

 

**Epilogue the Second**

 

“—so I think, in the end, my dear, if you stop hating yourself, at least a little, you might be able to resist the unpleasant effects of sanctified water! It’s not like you’re _all_ evil, you know.”

 

“Oh, creation help us.” moaned Crowley from his sanctuary on the sofa, surrounded by gently waving plants and cushioned by far more pillows than the couch could reasonably expect to hold.“You’re babbling on about angels—fallen or otherwise—and--and self-actualization?” He fought for a moment, managed to get himself up on one still-bandaged elbow, pointed an accusing finger at his friend. “In short, you’re telling me your idea to speed up my recovery is to follow an idea you saw on the ** _telly_**?”

 

Aziraphale shrugged, finished arranging the overflowing tea tray, and came round towards the sofa with it, a pile of biscuits wobbling precariously on the edge. “I don’t know, but it is quite a good show. You should try it.”

 

Crowley’s voice went higher. **_“_** _AMERICAN!!_ ** _TELLY!!”_** He roared, and the houseplants near the couch trembled as if caught in a high wind.

 

Aziriphale hid a smile. Cantankerous Crowley meant a healing Crowley. Besides, anything to get his spirit back up.

 

“I don’t see anything wrong with it taking place in Los Angeles.” He said cheerily. “Besides. I thought you liked the American West Coast.”

 

“DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO CAME UP WITH THE PITCH FOR THAT SHOW?! LISTEN HERE, ANGEL, I’LL TELL YOU EXACTLY HOW I—“

 

“Oooh, look, new episodes!” Aziraphale burbled happily. “Huzzah! And here I thought it’d been cancelled before its time!!” He readied the remote.

 

Crowley dramatically tried to smother himself with pillows, but was unsuccessful. “Uuuuuuuggggghhhh.” He moaned. “There’s no way this is going to be quality entertainment.”

 

Aziraphale smiled as American rock music and a jaunty, cocky television theme began emanating from the television. “You’d be surprised, my dear.”


	2. Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's POV!!

_Hours Before The Meeting_

 

The damn angels had him.

 

Well, that wasn’t TECHNICALLY correct.

 

The blessed angels—those that said they deserved to be in Heaven—had him.

 

Although he had his doubts about that. The “them deserving to be in Heaven” bit, at least. Hell knew _he_ didn’t deserve to be in the Ethereal Realm, but these twats had all been more than willing to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting Earth and all of its many inhabitants. What was worse, they’d been willing to kill Aziraphale. Which, in Crowley’s eyes, made them all cowardly bastards deserving of a slow and painful death. Each and every one of them.

 

Crowley growled low in his throat and glared at the small brigade of angels it’d taken to capture him. Some of them winced away. A few others spared him brief looks of contempt. Most of them examined their nails. Crowley growled again, lower this time, and wished he was able to tell each one of them exactly what he thought. But the damn gag they’d buckled onto his face wasn’t letting him say anything, let alone break into an impassioned rant about where and how exactly they were absolute and utter failures who didn’t dare deserve the title of “angel”.

 

A rustle of wings. A murmur of voices. The small crowd around him parted, revealing—

 

_“Gabriel.”_ Crowley snarled, putting as much venom as he could into the name.

 

Although, technically, it came out sounding much closer to _“_ ** _Rrrrr_** _riel.”_

 

The archangel in charge who’d been more than happy to start off Earth’s literal ending without so much as confirming his orders with his superiors. Who’d been the angriest at Aziraphale for DARING to save innocent lives, and been more than slightly sadistic at his ange—Aziraphale’s—hearing.

 

THAT archangel.

 

Well, now that angel was back in front of Crowley. And smiling like he didn’t have a care in the world. Damn his smarmy hide.

 

“Well, well. Crowley.” Gabriel said, his wide and genial smile never reaching his eyes. Those stayed hard, and cold, and calculating. “Been a bit, hasn’t it? Since you’ve been….” He gestured vaguely around at the cold white light and the infinite hallways of Heaven.

 

Crowley didn’t spare them a glance. He was too busy still glaring at Gabriel.

 

Gabriel made a false “Oh!” of apology and clapped his hands together. “How rude of me.” He all but purred. “Not letting you get a word in edgeways.” He snapped his fingers.

 

The gag _tightened_ suddenly, faster than thought, cutting into the side of Crowley’s face and down into his tongue, just enough to draw blood.

And then, in the next second, the gag vanished. Crowley wrinkled his nose in disgust and spat off to the side of the chair he was tied to. His yellow-eyed glare at the archangel never broke. Neither did Gabriel’s smile.

 

“So, tell me.” Gabriel said again, all courtesy and polite hospitality. “What do you think of the place?”

 

Crowley’s fists clenched against the thick ropes currently binding him to the chair. “Oh, I’ll tell you exssactly what I think of _you_.” He snarled. Dammit, he was hissing again. He always hissed whenever he started losing control.

 

But damnit all, they had been willing to KILL AZIRAPHALE. The best, sweetest, kindest being Crowley had ever met in 6,000 years. And they’d been willing to BURN HIS BEST FRIEND ALIVE without even listening to a WORD in his defense.

 

That was not something Crowley could forgive. And once—long ago—before the questions he’d asked, before the Wrath, before the awful, agonizing Fall—he’d been in one of their highest ranks. He’d been powerful. Able to protect those he cared about.

 

He’d make them remember that.

 

“Your friend should be arriving here shortly.” Gabriel mentioned, off-handedly studying his own nails with all the feigned interest of someone watching paint dry.

 

Crowley stopped short, swallowing the next words he’d been about to spit at Gabriel’s face.

 

Oh.

 

They…they were getting Aziraphale. They were, they were bringing him here too. Presumably not for tea and biscuits.

 

Oh.

 

Well, then. Maybe Crowley would make them remember all those intimidating…things…about how he’d used to be, but it’d be better to wait until _after_ Aziraphale was safely away from their clutches.

 

Crowley glowered, trying his best to figure a way out of the situation. Aziraphale made things harder. Not that he meant to, but he did. In this situation, at least.

 

Satan curse it.

 

Gabriel knew all that as well, judging from the smirk the insufferable twat had on his face. Crowley decided to try and dig for information as best he could.

 

It wasn’t like he was going anywhere else. And he needed to know more about the situation before these arseholes got ahold of his best friend.

 

He tried several approaches. First speaking civilly to, then reasoning with, then getting aggravated by, shouting to make his point, and ended with cursing out the politely immovable, maddeningly condescending, completely unhelpful Gabriel.

At some point Gabriel started asking his own questions. And when Crowley told him exactly how and where he could stick his insinuations that Azpiraphale deserved to be smited, Gabriel started smiting him. Not enough to disincorporate him. Just enough to hurt.

 

A bloody lot.

 

“You ssssuck.” He hissed, once he got enough breath back to speak. “Ssssoooo much.”

 

Gabriel shrugged one perfectly-tailored shoulder. “At least I’m not a demon.” He said sweetly. And snapped his fingers, again. Crowley cursed between his teeth as blinding, horrible pain stabbed through him, the pain arching through him like a ragged tree of fire. Knowing Gabriel, he was probably using lighting.

 

Judging by the faintly burned smell wafting up from the soles of his shoes—ugh, burned rubber smelled terrible—and the intermittent jerks his muscles were still suffering at random intervals—Gabriel was definitely using lighting.

 

Arsehole.

 

“One more time.” Gabriel said smoothly, as if they were discussing cricket over tea and biscuits. “How long have you and Aziraphale been…” his nose wrinkled in disgust. “…working together.” He finished.

 

Crowley bared his teeth at the archangel. “Sod off.”

 

“Is that a yes?”

 

“No, it’s an _insult_ , you bloody idio—“

 

More spasming. Ah, hell.

 

“You’re making this harder on yourself than it has to be.” Gabriel said, somewhere after the fifth time they’d repeated much the same exchange. Crowley grinned nastily over at him. At least, over at where he thought Gabriel was. The room was a little—not unsteady, per se, just…fuzzy. Around the edges. A bit.

 

“You don’t have the authority to—to do thisss.” Crowley hissed. “I’m a demon, I answer to Hell, not to your sorry ars—AAAARRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHGGHHH!!”

 

Oh, hells. Everything hurt. It hurt to breathe. Everything hurt a lot.

 

While Crowley walked himself through learning the basics of respiration again, Gabriel dusted off his smoking palms. “I am an angel.” He said, and the lights in the room seemed to dim a little as he said it. “You are not. Not any longer. I am your superior in every way. And if I choose to smite you and your traitorous friend off the face of the cosmos—“

 

“He’s—he’s not my friend—he’s a—a business acquaintance, a, a rival—“

 

Gabriel smiled patronizingly and continued on.

 

“—I don’t see anything—“ he glanced up at the ceiling “—or AnyOne—trying to stop me.”

 

Crowley sucked in a breath at the old, painful reminder, and, behind his dark glasses, chanced a quick glance up at the ceiling himself. Maybe SomeOne would come. Maybe SomeOne would come, if only to save—to save Aziraphale. Maybe They would stop Gabriel from—

 

A dim ringing tone, almost like a bell, rang throughout the empty halls and echoed off the cold walls leading to the Conference room. Gabriel clapped his hands excitedly. “Oh, finally, they got him. He’s almost here.”

 

Panic suddenly flooded over Crowley, sending newfound strength searing through his limbs. “Wait—“ he started, hoping against hope to at least buy time. If not for himself, then at least for Aziraphale.

 

Gabriel didn’t even look at him. Too busy checking a slim phone he’d drawn from out of his coat pocket. Crowley hissed, straining against the ropes. “Gabriel, jussst, jussst lisssten to me—why--why are you—“ he began.

 

Another awful blast of pain, making the room fade out for a moment.

 

Crowley’s head is spinning, and he’s hoping against hope that when he opens his eyes something has changed. That maybe SomeOne would be there, or Gabriel wouldn’t be, and that—and that he and Aziraphale could just go back, go back home to Earth where they belonged, and that this whole nightmare would be—

 

The ropes around his wrists changed. Turned into something cold and metallic, twisting his wrists mercilessly behind him.

 

Chains. Cold, unforgiving chains spiraled tight around his wrists, creaked as they molded seamlessly to his skin and melded with the back of the chair, and thicker tendrils of cold crept up his spine and twisted around his neck, links clinking and hissing. But somewhere, underneath the ice, something _burned_.

 

His senses still reeled from the smitings he’d received, and for a second he couldn’t place the sensation. Then he did, and Crowley sucked in a pained breath, shoulders hunching, as the chains seared into the tender skin on the back of his neck. From over his head, he heard Gabriel chuckle. “Remarkable.” He heard the archangel say. “I had no idea it would start working so soon.”

 

Crowley forced himself to look up at Gabriel, feeling his own throat begin to close as the stabbing cold began to shoot through him.

 

“You basstard.” He wheezed. “You’re…you’re using…holy water. It’ss not—“ he lost track of his thoughts for a moment, then gamely picked them up again “—not sssupossed to be ussed…thiss way…you…you s, s, sssick…fuck.”

 

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed and flashed, an ugly shade of storm grey deepening the irises before he hid the darkness. He flashed a smile down at Crowley. AGAIN.

 

On that note, Crowley was beginning to hate Gabriel’s smile. It was too wide and insincere. Besides, it never meant anything good. Not for Crowley, anyway.

 

“I wouldn’t make a fuss if I were you.” Gabriel said smoothly. “We don’t want Aziraphale getting upset, now, do we?” Crowley knew an implied threat to his friend when he heard one. Instead of replying, he bit his tongue to keep from screaming and scuffled around in his chair, trying (unsuccessfully) to find a (somewhat) comfortable position.

 

“Please stop squirm-ing.” Gabriel murmured, his voice soft and soothing, as if he was tenderly speaking to a cherished child. Crowley huffed and slouched down even further, trying his best to slide down and away from the chains. Hells but they hurt.

 

“We can make _his_ manacles from hell-fire.” Gabriel sing-songed, examining his nails again. He spared Crowley a brief wink. “I have some Arrangements down-stairs too.” He said, and for a moment his eyes were far less bright, and the light seemed to darken around him.

 

Then the moment was gone, like a cloud passing momentarily across the perfect sun.

 

“So! Shall we begin?” He asked.

 

Crowley glowered again, but didn’t dare say anything _. Yes, sure, fine._ His thoughts were whirring too hard and too fast, like helpless plants caught in a hurricane’s gusts. _Whatever. Whatever. Say whatever, do whatever you want to me, you massive dick. Just don’t hurt Aziraphale._

 

Crowley settled for settling his chin on his chest and glaring at the floor as pointedly as he could. He couldn’t really lift his head anyway. At least this looked like something he’d do. If he was trying to be his typical self.

 

Which he was.

 

Sort of.

 

It absolutely wasn’t because he was near the end of his rope, and certainly not because he wanted to keep Aziraphale in the dark about his injuries as much as possible. Heaven—or Hell—pft, probably both—knew what Gabriel had hidden up his sleeve for his own self-confessed least-favorite-angelic-colleague. Crowley did not plan to antagonize him until Aziraphale was safely away. He could wait until that happened. He just had to think—

 

“All right then!” Gabriel cried, and snapped his fingers.

 

In an instant, Aziraphale was across from him on the other side of the table, seated next to Gabriel.

 

Except his wrists were also encased in ice, and Aziraphale’s usually beaming face had the half bemused, half-worried expression he only ever got when a) his books were out of order, b) he’d learned of another odd myth the not-Anti-Christ had got wind of and believed, and c) when he found himself suddenly in a situation he hadn’t properly planned for.

 

“I suppose you’re wondering why I called this meeting.” Gabriel started in his usual sanctimonious manner, fingers steepled before him.

 

Crowley began to roll his eyes, then thought better of it. He turned the motion into a languid blink instead, purposely slouching further down in his chair. What he wouldn’t give to be able to turn into a snake right now and bite off Gabriel’s nose.

 

_Let’s see him look down it at Aziraphale again after_ **_that_ ** _, heh-heh-heh. Heh._

 

Oh, drat, now Aziraphale’s looking worriedly over at him. Of course. Of course Angel would worry about Crowley’s sorry hide before his own. Drat him. He should be planning his own escape. Not worrying about Crowley. For everything’s sake, even Crowley wasn’t worried about Crowley. Not exactly.

 

Best not to dwell on that thought for too long. What to do. What to do. What to—ah. Best to play this off as being bored. Take Gabriel’s focus off of Aziraphale. That would help. A bit, at least.

 

And he was bored. Very bored. And if Gabriel smiled one more time Crowley was going to box his bloody ears, just for the principle of the thing.

 

“Thisss entire meeting could have been a bloody email.” he muttered out loud, his head still tilted uncomfortably downwards on his chest, facing towards somewhere between his shin and the floor. “Pointlessss wasssste of time.”

 

“Time,” Gabriel admonished sternly, “is not something beings like us take into account.”

 

“Clearly.” Crowley retorted, unable to help himself. “The humanss will have started actually usssing solar power by now, and I wouldn’t be sssurprised if there are self-driving carsss when we get ba—“

 

Gabriel cut him off, and Crowley outright _hissed_ at the interruption—and hissed again, louder, when he saw Aziraphale’s worried look turn into one of genuine, building alarm.

 

“It’s really all right, my dear.” Aziraphale intervened, putting on his best (false) “everything is quite all right” smile. “It’s quite all right. Just a little bit of—of, of fraternal correction, from, from my superiors, and I’ll improve my—my performance with helping humans see the, the light, and—and everything will be—er, balanced, as usual, and as right as rain. Again.”

 

Crowley felt something ignite deep inside him, a rage that had never fully dulled, and only ever built whenever he heard how Heaven treated his best friend. Fraternal correction, his snakeskin hide. They only ever used Aziraphale—earnest, conscientious, kind-hearted Aziraphale—as an emotional chew toy whenever they bloody well felt like it, and he wasn’t going to just—just ssssit here and watch Gabriel’s bloody ssssmile turn into an all out grin without calling them out on their hypocrisssy—

 

He realized he was shouting, and that the burning pain around his neck and his wrists had increased. Oh. Of course. Fighting against iced holy water restraints couldn’t be good for him, corporeal body or not. Nevertheless, he fought his best against them. This was _important_ , damn it, they couldn’t treat Aziraphale like he was _trash_ , like he didn’t _matter,_ they couldn’t make Aziraphale feel like he wasn’t _good_ enoug—

 

Gabriel’s smirk widened. And he raised one hand.

 

Searing agony shot up Crowley’s neck, across his face, bored through his head, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped at the pain. No, wait. He didn’t. Because he couldn’t. Couldn’t…breathe.

 

Ow. Ow. Ow. What was—what had—

 

Aziraphale, face pale, voice crying out in the background. Gabriel’s voice, deep and pleased. Ugh. Bastard. Crowley glared over in his general direction. This is Gabriel’s doing, he knows it.

 

Aziraphale’s sounding really worried, now.

 

A trickle of something like acid crawled over Crowley’s tongue, melted down his throat. Crowley tried to scream. Again. Same result as the first time. Nothing.

 

What had—his thoughts were slow, sluggish. What was that? And why was he so cold? Everything hurt, his head, his face—everything was so awfully cold…it hurt…

 

Oh.

 

The ice. The holy water. The holy water…ice. Gabriel’d done something to it. Something new. Something awful.

 

Ow, ow, ow….A dim part of Crowley’s mind knew his thoughts weren’t firing on all cylinders, but he wasn’t going to just let whatever-this-was _happen_ to him without a fight. Maybe if he broke the ice, snapped the chains, cracked the collar/muzzle climbing up his neck? Ugh, no. Too thick. Not working. His eyes are blurry from the pain, he can’t bloody see anything, hardly anything, that is…

 

Burning, burning. Hot, so hot, but still so cold—and still not breathing. But not breathing’s fine. He doesn’t have to. He’s a demon, for everything’s sake.

 

He doesn’t need to breathe. He’s a demon, not a human. Right?

Right.

But the cold—and the burning—that isn’t stopping. It’s getting worse, actually. Harder to see. Even harder to move. Oh, stars and galaxies and everything in and outside of creation, this _hurts—_

 

The scraping sound of a chair being pushed back. Footsteps pacing towards him. Too slow. Too slow to be Aziraphale. A voice. Definitely Gabriel’s voice. Saying something.

 

When the blow comes, Crowley wasn’t expecting it. That is to say, he hadn’t, exactly, seen it coming. He knew Gabriel liked to feel powerful. He knew Gabriel liked to hurt other people—beings—whatever—to do so. He just hadn’t—hadn’t been able to see. It coming. Not this time.

 

His glasses are off, now. Broken into bits in a far corner of the room.

 

The light hurts his eyes. But Gabriel’s in front of him, and his eyes are scowling, so at least Aziraphale’s not being hurt.

 

That’s good. Crowley glares up at his tormentor as best he can, but then of course Aziraphale has to break in, all noble and heroic-like, trying his best to draw Gabriel’s attention away from Crowley.

 

Crowley shoots his best friend (in this and all other possible worlds) a look he usually only reserved for shockingly sick plants. **_“Stoppit, angel!”_** He tries to say. But all that comes out is a strangled sound from behind the muzzle. More acid, pooling and dripping down his throat. Oh, ancient gods of Rome and Greece, this _hurts._

 

Another slap upside the head from Gabriel. Tiny white spots bursting across his vision.

 

So hard to move, to think. So hard.

 

But Gabriel’s asking him a question, he’s asking about Aziraphale, if Crowley has anything he wants to say on his friend’s behalf—and he has to, he has to convince Gabriel—convince Heaven—not to hurt Aziraphale, that the whole thing, the whole Arrangement, had been Crowley’s idea in the first place and his idea alone—stop them, convince them, don’t let them hurt Aziraph—

 

Crowley fought against the darkness trying to engulf him and willed the fire running through his veins to materialize, to burn the ice trapping his voice away.

 

It had hurt before.

 

It was agony now.

 

But he couldn’t stop trying. He mustn’t. He had to—had to stop Gabriel—otherwise Aziraphale would be—be—

 

Gabriel’s eyes harden into flecks of ice. Oh, God. He’s going to hurt Aziraphale. No. No. Nonononono—

 

“Fight. Harder.” Gabriel hisses, and Crowley screams with whatever breath he has left in him, pours the rest of his pain and his fury against the ice trapping him—and it melts. Barely. The holy water coursing down his face and neck is anguish incarnate, but Crowley forces himself to keep going until the final embers fade and he slumps back against the chair, wheezing in what little air he’s won through his bleeding nose.

 

But he still can’t talk. The ice coating round his jaw and neck sees to that. And besides, the inside of his throat feels torn asunder, burned and blackened and bleeding, and he can taste iron on his tongue and he’s not sure he could talk even if he tried—but he has to try, he has to—

 

God his face feels like its on fire, his hands are shaking, his arms are heavy and weighted and throbbing behind the chair back, and he just wants to collapse somewhere quiet and _rest_.

 

But he can’t. He can’t let—let holy water stop him from protecting his angel.

 

_If you’d never fallen_ , a small voice whispers in his ear, y _ou’d have nothing to worry about. Aziraphale wouldn’t be in any danger. And if he ever came to be, you’d have been able to protect him._

 

Crowley winces at the old, well-worn thought, tries push it away like he has so many other times.

 

But this time, it stays.

 

And other voices join in.

 

_—just_ **_had_ ** _to ask those questions,_ **_didn’t_ ** _you—_

_—hung the stars and spun the night sky—_

_—but you couldn’t leave well enough alone—_

_—stupid, worthless, waste of an entity—_

_—cast out in darkness and fire, serves you right—_

_—now you can’t even touch pure water—_

_—corrupt, stupid, questioning fool—_

_—_ **_Aziraphale’_ ** _s in_ **_danger_ ** _and it’s_ **_your fault_ ** _—_

 

Crowley realizes he’s shivering so badly that the icy chains still burning into his wrists clack together discordantly, and he—he can’t keep his devil-may-care expression up, not anymore, it’s gone, and he can’t get it back, it’s melted away by the torture and the pain and the terror—

 

Aziraphale’s usually kind voice sounds dull and far away. Gabriel, talking, again. Ugh. Normally, Crowley would have used this opportunity to point out how much of a blather-box Gabriel is, even if it was just to cheer Aziraphale up…but…but he can’t…the ice still holds his jaw shut, is still melting down between his clenched teeth and inching down his throat—and now Gabriel’s using this as a teaching exercise. Something about how Aziraphale shouldn’t fraternize with something so corrupt it burns at the mere touch of blessed water, how Aziraphale shouldn’t trust something as fallen and irredeemable as a demon.

 

He doesn’t mean to, but Crowley shudders and lets his burning eyes slide shut. He’s just…so tired. He doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to see Gabriel’s smug face, see Aziraphale’s horrified one. He doesn’t want to see what Azriaphale thinks of him. Now that he’s gotten a good look.

 

A sudden grip on his chin, a brutal yank upwards. Crowley tried to hold in a whimper and fails, then squeezes his eyes shut as he catches sight of the flare of triumph in Gabriel’s. Gabriel’s fingers tighten for a moment, then his thumb presses down, _hard_ , on one of the worst burns right under Crowley’s left temple.

 

Crowley feels his eyes flare open from pain and finds himself staring into Gabriel’s own icy gaze. The archangel’s upper lip curls and he forces Crowley’s aching head around to look directly into Aziraphale’s shocked blue eyes.

 

Crowley feels something shiver and fall away deep inside him when that happens. When he sees the unguarded look in Aziraphale’s eyes, in the way the angel stares back at him in absolute horror. When Gabriel finally releases his chin, he just lets it drop back onto his chest. He can’t get free. He can’t protect Aziraphale.

 

Besides.

 

Aziraphale had seen him for what he was. Just like Gabriel had said.

 

Fallen.

Corrupted.

Weak.

 

Who knew. There _were_ some things that hurt worse than holy water. Or falling from Heaven.

 

“Crowley, darling.”

 

Aziraphale’s voice. Who else would ever even think of calling him “darling”, anyway?

 

The same familiar voice again. Gentle. Almost pleading. “…listen to me. What he said is not true.”

 

Despite the pain clouding his thoughts, Crowley’s eyes flicked to his friend for a second. Then he felt himself drifting away again. He must be imagining things.

 

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale.

Again.

Even more gently than before. “He’s lying to you.”

 

No.

No, he’s not.

Gabriel’s right.

Aziraphale’s wrong.

 

Fallen.

Corrupted.

Weak.

 

That’s all he is now. That’s all he’ll ever be.

 

Huh. Some sort of ruckus seems to be happening over on the angel’s side of the table. Light and yells and sounds too loud to be real, to be happening here, in Heaven. His home too, once. Until he’d—

 

—mucked it all up.

 

Some of the crashing sounds faded. Then hands were on him, on his face and on his arms, but these were hands he knew—good hands, kind hands, careful hands that smelled of ink and old paper, crepes and good wine—

 

—Aziraphale?

 

—how—

 

—what was he—

 

—where were they—

 

The cold white light’s gone now, replaced with a familiar dark blue sky and pinpricks of stars. Wind rushed overhead, but the sound was distant, somehow, far removed and irrelevant. Crowley shivered, drawing his burned arms to his chest in a futile attempt to warm his core.

 

The burning remained. The burning, and the cold.

 

Who was making those awful sounds? If Gabriel had hurt Aziraphale in any way, he’d kick down the doors of Heaven and burn the lot of them to the ground—

 

—oh—

 

—no, no, Aziraphale’s here, he’s fine—

 

—ohhh, it’s Crowley, Crowley himself is making those noises—

 

—that’s not—great—

 

—but at least it’s not—not Aziraphale—not A-a-zzziraphale…who hurts….hurts….

 

—A—Aziraphale—is—is saying something about—about fixing it—

 

—but he can’t—can’t fix Crowley—

 

—nobody can—

 

—Crowley should know, he’s tried—oh _God_ has he tried—

 

—but how can you fix something when you don’t even know what it is that you’ve _done_?—

 

—you can’t, you can’t, you can’t—

 

—you _can’t_ —

 

******

The next thing he knew, they were back in the bookshop. He was on the couch, a pillow sliding under his head, and Aziraphale was sounding cross. No, that wasn’t quite right. He was worried.

 

He shouldn’t be. Not for Crowley. Not for a demon.

Aziraphale’s saying something else now, about helping him, or something like that, but Crowley can’t hear him over the rushing in his ears. His glasses are gone, and his head is pounding, and his face and throat and neck and wrists and arms—everything burns, and hurts, so badly, but that wasn’t anyone’s fault but his own—

 

—oh, God—

 

His throat closes up, but not from the pain, and his eyes begin to sting, and for lack of a better option he forces himself to roll over and hide his face—his awful, proof-of-just-WHAT-he-was-FACE—in between the arm and the back of the couch.

 

And Aziraphale still wasn’t listening.

 

Crowley wanted to scream until his voice shattered and then tear off into the night sky. If he could have, he would have flown as fast and as far as his wings would carry him, until he disappeared into the void or burned into ash as he fell from the sky.

 

Just like…just like he had all those eons ago.

 

“…’m…bad.” He found himself whispering, just as much to himself as to Aziraphale’s blurry form. “…F-f-fallen.”

 

Why was he even talking about it, Aziraphale had been right there. He’d heard what Gabriel said. He’d seen the proof himself.

 

Crowley couldn’t stop the next few words from escaping, though. They huffed out on a breath he hadn’t meant to take, much less exhale, and he all but sunk deeper into the couch after saying them.

 

“…not right. Not good. Not anymore. Good thingsss can’t help me. An’ bad things w-w-w-won’t even try. ‘m….’m bad. And I…can’t get b-b-better.”

 

He heard Aziraphale freeze in his (futile) attempts to secure the bookshop from the Celestial Choirs, heard his friend draw in a short, sharp breath.

 

Crowley gulped again, forced himself to finish what he’d been saying. He owed it. To Aziraphale. It was the truth. And, if it be known, Crowley rather liked the truth, when all was said and done. At least he had. Once. Still did? He wasn’t sure anymore. But he still owed it to Aziraphale.

 

“…I, I tried. F-for a l-l-long time, angel. I—c-c—can’t…“ “—g _et better_.” was what he’d wanted to say, but his throat betrayed him and his voice broke on the last word, turning into a cough that he (mostly) successfully stifled.

 

Annnnd now Aziraphale was here, hovering just above him. Crowley burrowed deeper into the worn couch and wished fervently he was well enough to change his form. Why couldn’t he just turn into a snake and _hide_ from _everything_ right now, why oh why oh whyyyyy….

 

A comforting hand on his head. Kind words. Good words, that he didn’t deserve. Something about healing needing to happen, and that asking questions was perfectly all right, and…Crowley’s mind began to drift away on a foggy sea of pain. Aziraphale was still talking. Something about…uh…something something, mushy mushy, mush mush nice kind nice.

 

Oh, wait, Aziraphale was asking him a question. Something about if stopping a pointless Armageddon was a bad thing to do.

 

Crowley squinched up his aching forehead, forcing his sluggish brain to think this one through. He certainly wasn’t up to answering hard questions at the moment, but he did know the answer to this one. Because if stopping a pointless Armageddon WAS bad, that’d mean that _Aziraphale_ had done something bad. Which he didn’t.

 

The answer—the only answer—came out slower and more confused than Crowley would have liked. To be fair, he was still fairly sure he was slowly burning alive from the inside out.

 

…”uhnnnnnn….ummmmmmmmmmmm….n-nnnnn-no?”

 

He must have gotten it right. Aziraphale was beaming in any case, so Crowley’s exhausted mind decided to chalk that one up as a win.

 

Gentle fingers brushed the side of his face, and Crowley winced, sucking in a pained breath. He forced himself to relax—it was AZIRAPHALE, for everything’s sake, after all—and forced what little strength he still had into keeping—relatively—still while Aziraphale went about beginning the healing process.

 

Judging from the occasional sniffle and the intermittent gulps coming from Aziraphale, they’d both be drinking themselves absolutely round the bend when the next occasion arose. Dimly, he hoped Aziraphale wasn’t too overwhelmed by his messy injuries. There were a lot, after all. And Aziraphale didn’t usually deal with things this…ugly.

 

After what seemed like twelve eternities, but must have only been a few minutes, Aziraphale’s voice made its way through the thick fog in Crowley’s brain.

“…you feeling now?” He asked, his voice thick with care and hope.

 

Crowley winced and tried to shrug, but the movement instantly forced a ragged sound deep from the back of his throat. He rather thought the burns had started to heal, but painful-looking blisters were swelling over most of the skin, and another flash of cold burst through him, forcing the truth from him in what was almost just a hiss.

 

“S—s—still h-h-hurtsss, angel.” he whispered. Aziraphale swallowed hard and—very, very carefully—kissed the top of his head. Crowley swallowed hard himself.

 

“I know.” Aziraphale’s kind voice said sympathetically. “I know. But I promise, it will get better.”

 

For a moment, Crowley believed him.

 

Then bursts of harsh light flashed across the windows of the bookshop, and the muffled sound of wingbeats told Crowley that their brief respite was over. He winced at the sudden flares of brilliance, and he felt his dulling eyes slide shut to block out the angrily pulsing lights.

 

“Ah.” Aziraphale said, in a surprisingly calm tone. A sudden dull _fwooosh_ made Crowley open his eyes again, and it took a brief eternity for his muddled brain to register that Aziraphale was marching towards the doorway while brandishing THE Flaming Sword.

 

Oh for the love of—everything!

 

Crowley forced himself up to one elbow, reached out and just managed to curl his shaking fingers around Aziraphale’s free hand, stopping him in his tracks.

 

“Don’t—don’t—don’t go.” Crowley choked out. He gritted his teeth, tried to rise. “Don’ be ssstupid, aaangel. I’ll…I’ll go. I’ll go.”

 

For an enraged entity wielding a flaming sword, Aziraphale actually looked rather pop-eyed in that moment. “You certainly shall not!” He squawked.

 

Then the angel had the absolute nerve to try and disentangle himself from Crowley’s hand. Crowley gritted his teeth and tightened his mangled fingers’ grip on his best friend’s wrist.

 

“I, I won’t let you get obliterated!” Aziraphale all but wailed.

 

Crowley swallowed hard, a thick lump forming in the back of his throat.

 

“Sss—same goes…goesss for you.”

 

“Oh, bother!” Aziraphale groaned, sounding—of all things—somewhat peeved. Crowley felt his own face curl into a reluctant, excruciating smirk.

 

They were both probably going to get painfully incinerated by some means or another in the next thirty seconds, and here they were squabbling about who would die in an agonizing manner first.

 

Par for the course, he supposed.

 

A shadow at the door, blocking the harsh light. Gabriel’s stern profile. His voice, calling out.

 

“Aziraphale! Hand over the demon, and your punishment will not be prolonged!”

 

“SOD OFF!!” Crowley rasped towards the door. Aziraphale’s indignant snarl of “ABSOLUTELY NOT!” rang out simultaneously through the shop.

 

Crowley felt his head grow heavier as Aziraphale looked back down at him. He clenched his teeth, willed his eyes to stop burning. He wasn’t going to let his friend go out there. Not alone, at any rate. He might be shaking like a dying autumn leaf, Hell, the room might be spinning around his head, but Aziraphale was not going to get disintegrated for protecting him. He…he wouldn’t let it happen. No. Not ever.

 

A sort of calm seemed to sweep over Aziraphale. He stopped moving towards the door. He put the flaming sword away. And then he sat down on the chair next to the sofa, keeping Crowley’s hand gently in his own.

 

“Well.” Aziraphale said, with a briskness Crowley knew the angel was far from feeling. “They’ll have to just come and get us both, then.”

 

Crowley swallowed hard, looking back at his friend. His friend since the beginning. Since the Garden. He’d never done anything to deserve anyone like him. And yet, here he was. Accepting his fate as if he were discussing the weather forecast for next Sunday.

 

Aziraphale smiled brightly back at him, something solid and strong sparkling out of his eyes. Crowley swallowed again.

 

He hadn’t thought it would end this way. Actually, he’d never thought he’d go out this way. Side by side with a friend. That had never been on Anthony J. Crowley’s “List of Things That Will Definitely Happen.”

 

But, he supposed, if—if it did have to end—side by side with Aziraphale was—was not a bad way to go.

 

**Epilogue the First**

 

“Goodness me.” Aziraphale said, several minutes later. “They’ve been going at it for quite some time, now. Whyever do you think they can’t get in?”

 

“Beatssss me.” Crowley said, wearily trying to focus on anything other than the relentless pounding sound at the door. “You’d think they’d try pusssshing on it as well assss pulling.” He squinted at his friend. “Gabriel doesss know how human doorsss work, yesss?” Aziraphale nodded, half-frowning in puzzlement. And…” Crowley fumbled for words. “Y—y—your door doessss open, doessn’t it?”

 

Aziraphale nodded, humming thoughtfully. He hadn’t let go of Crowley’s hand during all this time. Which, Crowley dully noted, he didn’t mind. He actually rather liked it, actually.

 

It almost kept the fear away.

 

“It’s quite strange, really.” Aziraphale said, beginning, at last, to look somewhat like his cheerful self. “Odd. Inexplainable.”

 

Crowley had a sudden burst of inspiration flash across his mind. Or maybe it was just the migraine pounding mercilessly behind his eyes.

 

“In….ineffable…” he muttered.

 

Aziraphale’s head shot up and he gave a small cheer, punctuating his words with his free hand punching at the (still long-suffering and long-standing) door.

 

“That’s IT!” he shouted joyfully, beaming proudly up at the ceiling. “Ineffable! Oh, my dear Crowley, you are a geniu—“

 

He stopped short. Crowley briefly wondered why, but then felt his own burned hand going limp in Aziraphale’s grasp. The sudden rush of relief he’d felt when he realized that the Almighty was, at least, not going to let Gabriel get to Aziraphale—this time—had left him feeling strangely weightless. His vision dulled, and despite his attempts to keep his eyes open, the weight of his burning eyelids was too much to fight against, and he felt them droop half-closed. The room had gotten darker too. Or maybe that was just him. It was odd, really. His body was still on Aziraphale’s couch, but his mind was…slipping away. He tried tightening his grip on his friend’s fingers. Found he couldn’t.

 

He would have worried about it, if he wasn’t so cursed tired. He just…he just needed a rest. A short one.

 

Then maybe the icy fire racing throughout his blood would be gone. And his head and throat would stop burning, and he could see, and hear clearly. Think properly again.

 

Aziraphale, sounding as if he was speaking from very far away. Where could he have gone? His hand was still holding Crowley’s. If anything it had tightened its grip.

 

“Crowley?” His friend’s voice had taken on a note of sudden fear. “Crowley? Oh, oh no, oh my dear, oh—o _h, Crowley_!!”

 

Crowley tried to open his mouth, to say something, anything, make a joke, make a quip, pretend to be cranky, just anything to make his best friend stop sounding like…well, sounding like _that_.

 

The darkness swallowed him whole before he could even try.

 


	3. The Bookshop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are not always as they seem.

“Crowley!!”

A hand on his shoulder, shaking him—gently at first, and then almost painfully as his angel’s panic increased.

“Crowley, please—please, open your eyes—please, please? Or say something! Anything! Y—y—you’re—y—you can’t—Crowley, what’s, what’s happening?! What’s wrong? Please, dear, tell me what’s wrong, what can I do to help? Please, Crowley—say something, anything—please, please, _please_ —“

Crowley _wanted_ to open his eyes. He _wanted_ to reassure his angel that he was completely fine and that he just needed a minute.

But he couldn’t. Turns out that serious injuries—particularly worsening burns in your throat—don’t let you act all debonair. Or even try and be remotely reassuring to your best friend in the world/galaxy/cosmos. Even when said best friend is losing his mind.

_“Crowley—“_

Aziraphale was beginning to cry now, tears falling fast and hot on Crowley’s damaged hand—

— _Aziraphale_ was _crying_ and Crowley couldn’t _stand_ it—

_—Satan curse it why was even existing so hard right now—_

_Maybe it’s the third-degree burns Gabriel gave you, **moron.**_ his mind said.

True to form, Crowley ignored it.

Because Aziraphale was sobbing now, babbling something about how it was all going to be all right, he’d figure out a way to help, Crowley just had to—no, no, no, Crowley, hold on—don’t—don’t—oh, no, oh no, nononono _nooooo—_ “

Aziraphale’s hand pressed harder on his own, and despite the flare of pain it gave him, Crowley tried his best to squeeze back. To show his angel he was still there, still fighting.

But his fingers only twitched. A little.

Damn it.

Everything was so cold. And so hot. His corporation was shivering uncontrollably, despite Aziraphale’s best efforts to help. Worst of all, his hands and arms as well as his face still felt like they were on fire, and as for his throat and the damage done there—best not to think too much about it.

But Aziraphale was still there. Aziraphale needed him, in case the other—the others got in. They’d—they’d hurt Aziraphale, worse than Crowley was hurt. They’d hurt Aziraphale—they’d—hurt—Aziraph—

Words, not his own, tumbling over each other, threading their way through the haze of pain and darkness surrounding him.

“—nathema Device and her young man—and maybe, maybe even those children—they’ll be able to help if anyone can—the bookshop’s safe, none of our enemies can get in, as we’ve already seen—I’ll only be gone for a moment, my dear—don’t—don’t worry—I’ll get all this sorted out and you’ll be—you’ll be right as rain again—“

Aziraphale’s hand suddenly released its pressure, and Crowley instinctively reached out, seeking contact desperately.

Oh, for everything’s sake. He couldn’t even keep his hand up.

It just dropped off to the side, smacking against the side of the couch, and Crowley hated himself for the pained little whimper that escaped him.

Rushing footsteps back towards him. A distressed “Oh!”. Aziraphale’s familiar soft hands again, carefully enclasping his own, placing them gently back down on the worn sofa.

“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll be right back. I promise.”

One of the hands brushed quickly over his forehead, moving sticky, sweat-soaked hair out and away from his still-shut eyes. Then there was a short _snap_ , a swirl of wind that smelled like autumn leaves and woodsmoke—a rustle of loose papers settling back to the untidy floor—and Aziraphale was gone.

Crowley knew it as sure as he knew each and every constellation in the sky. He didn’t need his eyes to know that.  
He also didn’t need his eyes to know Aziraphale had meant what he said. Angel would go get their friends from the Apoco-hadn’t, and he’d be back in a flash, probably as if no time had passed at all.

It would all be fine.

He wouldn’t be alone for long.

All the same, Crowley could have cried.

It might have been the sudden horrid ache of loneliness left behind by Aziraphale’s abrupt departure. It might have been the weight of all his injuries descending down on him at once. It might even have been the unwanted memory of Gabriel’s smile and sneering words, along with the chains and muzzle made of holy ice that had hurt him this badly in the first place. Along with the lightning Gabriel had been offhandedly smiting him with….well, when all was said and done, Crowley wasn’t feeling too well. Or all that eager to remain alone with his thoughts and the silence.

In the end, the darkness rushed in anyway to claim him.

**********  
More darkness. Surprise, surprise.

Not the cool, calming darkness of sleep, either. Not the comforting, restful darkness of night, with pinpricks of stars and swirling galaxies lightyears away.

This darkness was thick, and heavy, and—it hurt—

—everything did—

—really, it was more a question of what _didn’t_ hurt—

—but then there was something else in the darkness. A voice. A familiar one.

A _scared_ one.

**_“—ley!!”_ **

One of Crowley’s golden eyes half-opened, and for a few heart-stopping moments, he didn’t remember where he was. Then it clicked.

Gentle light filtering in through hazardously piled books. Soft, comfortable pillow underneath his head. A well-loved blanket thrown over him that smelled of tea and biscuits, fine food and every so often, rather too much wine.

Angel. Bookshop. Angel’s bookshop.

Aziraphale’s bookshop—but if he was here, then where was—

The voice again, complete with banging on the front door.

**_“—hurry!! PLEASE!!!”_** His best friend’s voice cried out again, and the front door shook as desperate hands pounded against it.

**_“THEY’RE COMING BACK!!”_ **

Crowley’s eyes flew open as the memory of the past few hours hurtled though his mind, and he sat up so quickly his entire head throbbed. Nausea stabbed through him and he retched miserably over the side of the couch, his mangled corporation barely able to handle blinking, let alone sitting upright.

They were coming back.

The—the other angels—the ones who’d tortured him, and captured Zira too—they were—they were coming back—

—Zira was—was outside, was in danger—why’d he leave, why’d he ever leave the safety of the bookshop?!—

—dammit, angel—

—but he didn’t have time to think. Zira—and their friends—were out there, were going to get—

—hurt—

—everything, hurt—

—they were all going, to get, hurt—

—no—

—no, not today—

**_“—LEEEEEYY!!!”_** Other voices, alongside Aziraphale’s, screaming now.

Book girl. Nerd boy. The kids.

The _kids._

Crowley gritted his teeth, summoned every last ounce of his strength, and haltingly extended one trembling, badly-burned hand, squeezing his eyes shut against the agonizing pain throbbing throughout every part of his being.

And snapped his fingers.

“Come in, angel.” He rasped, just to make sure the gesture was clear for Whoever was watching. “Q—q—quick…”

The door clicked open, multiple footsteps rushing in. Crowley had just enough energy left to snap again, locking the bookshop safely against whatever hordes were lurking outside, and then half-settled, more fell back onto the sofa where he lay wheezing for breath, every movement an agony throughout his entire corporation.

But Aziraphale was—safe.

He was back.

With their friends.

Everything—everything would be all right—from—from here.

 

“Oh…ley, what….they….to you…”

Crowley gurgled in another breath and managed to open his eyes this time, blearily blinking across the bookshop.  
Aziraphale was back.

But so was…

**_“Hassssstur!”_ **

Crowley didn’t realize he was screaming, didn’t realize he’d already half-fallen off the couch, didn’t realize he’d somehow clawed/crawled/jumped/ SOMEHOW made it to the other end of the bookshop and was already smashing Hastur’s sorry hide three inches deep into the bookshelf behind Aziraphale.

The damned demon had been plunging a nasty-looking knife down towards Aziraphale’s shoulder blades, after all.  
Crowley kept screaming and smashing, even when his mind (and pain receptors) caught up and were hollering at him that he was over-taxing himself, was doing more harm than good, was making an already-awful-situation WORSE—

—but none of that mattered now.

Aziraphale was back.

Aziraphale was safe.

It was all going to be…all right.

Crowley stopped repeatedly slamming Hastur’s no-longer-groaning corporation into the bookshelf and staggered back, falling ungracefully to one knee and both hands.

It was so hard to breathe.

So…it hurt so much…

Hands, gripping his shoulders, drawing him upwards. Familiar blue eyes, scanning him up and down.

That voice.

“Oh…oh, Crowley—“

Those same arms, pulling him into a hug.

An actual, real, both-arms, full hug.

Crowley’s entire body stiffened, just for a second. Angel had never really been into obvious displays of affection.

This was… different. This was…new.

Then Crowley’s own corporation reminded him that he’s been through (nearly) literal hell and he slumped against Aziraphale’s shorter, yet solid frame.

He wasn’t usually a big hug person, him. But just this once he supposed it was—all right—

—if Ange—If Aziraphale was all right with it, he was, was all right with it too—

—besides, Aziraphale had nearly been—been discorporated—by bloody Hasstur, no less—

—that would have hurt so mcuh—worse than the holy water—

—Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder, choking at the memory—at the hurt and the pain it conjured up again—

….

—And…speaking of hurt…

—there was a sudden, stabbing pain radiating through him, making his eyes water awfully—the agony was centered on his…ugh, back…and his—his abdomen…

—it hurt—

—it hurt so, so, sssoooo much—

—but when had it—where had it—

—come from?—

—he forced his tearing eyes open, forced them to look—

—a bloody knife—

—from off the floor—

—Hastur’s knife is in Angel’s hand—

…Angel’s?…

…hand?…

Aziraphale is still holding the knife, dripping now, and telling Crowley to _“Hush, sweetheart, hush…”_

The familiar soft hand curled around the back of his neck, holding him close. That soothing voice again, telling him that everything was all right, it was all going to be all right…just hush…

Again, and again, and again.

Punctuated by repeated, vicious stabs of the knife.

Into Crowley’s back.

Crowley blinked in confusion, blood bubbling up and out of his throat. Dripping onto the the shoulder of the worn, well loved tartan suitcoat Angel liked to wear.

Crowley tries to blink, reorient himself. Fails.

Stab, stab, stab.

A whine tore its way out of his throat. He doesn’t remember making it. A broken, keening sound. He can’t stop it if he tries.

“Shhhhhh.”

Angel’s voice, again. The hand clasping tighter around his neck.

Crowley tries to catch his balance, to hold his own weight. He can’t. His arms and hands are too heavy. They drop to his sides. Distantly, he feels his knees give way, the hurt, the confusion, the—the everything—too much for him to handle.

Angel’s the only thing holding him up.

Stab. Stab. Stab.

Crowley tries to find his voice, to breathe in, to ask _why_. He can’t.

Aziraphale’s voice still cheery and chipper, reassuring and warm, telling him to hush, that everything will be all right.

_Stab. Stab. Stab._

Crowley would have cried. If his lungs were still working.

This…this wasn’t—this couldn’t—be Aziraphale.

A different voice, now.

Coming from Angel’s throat.

The smug tone matches the sudden violet sheen of Angel’s eyes.

“I thought you’d catch on. Eventually.”

Stab, stab.

Stab.

Crowley hopes the darkness will take him this time.

It doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *evil laughter* Muwaaahahahahahaaaaaa!!!!! Ask for more and ye may receive! As in, receive YET MORE AGONIZING CLIFFHANGERS!!!
> 
> (Seriously though your feedback/positive comments are super appreciated and helps me get through the current horrid times I'm going through--hopefully I'll update...soon. My schedule is...ah, a bit 'ineffable' at the moment....and not through any plans of my own, I can assure you!!) 
> 
> But seriously I'm so glad you enjoy this! Enjoy this next chapter and the...anticipation of the following....<3 <3 3:D

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to dearest tommino, who Tumblr-messaged back and forth with me in all caps about how AWFUL it would be if something BAD happened to our favorite demon. (Also, in passing, being affectionally called a "beautiful, evil, nefarious fiend" during said conversation is one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me. 3:D Hope you guys liked it! Comments and kudos are always appreciated and celebrated <3 <3 
> 
> P.S. Does anybody need me to say what the show is at the end? :D I wanted to tease it as much as possible, but would be happy to tell you all what it is if you really want to know <3 <3


End file.
